Ciento
by Hewt
Summary: 100 themes challenge, Spamano style! Angst and humour, friendship and romance, AU and non-AU. - Recently added: #41. Love: "Love is a funny thing."
1. Moon

**#71. Moon**

**Hello and welcome! This is my attempt at the 100 themes challenge, Spamano style! I have so many ideas for this couple so I'm quite excited to get this started! Enjoy...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

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><p>Everything looked different in the moonlight, especially when the moon was shining brilliantly in the night sky, displaying her unrivalled beauty for everyone to see and utilise.<p>

For a lonely man the generous rays of silvery, delicate moonlight and the twinkling of the stars far above his head were his guide home; the soft and gentle caress of a guardian angel who steered him in the correct direction.

The soil of the tomato field felt cold underneath the soles of his bare feet and between the gaps of his toes while he walked, a perfectly content smile on his face. He held a basket that was filled to the brim with ripe tomatoes under his arm, and the straw hat he had been wearing earlier that day when he worked under the watchful eye of the scorching early afternoon sun, hung loosely against his shoulders.

Spain, that was what his friends called this man—but it had been such a long time since he'd last seen them, he suddenly realised, so maybe he had become a little less Spain and a little more Antonio Fernandez Carriedo ever since _he _left—preferred the moon over the sun, he had always had.

While the never-ceasing smile (or glare?) of the sun was the cause of his cheerful personality and the altogether pleasant climate of his country—those miserable summers in which the fields went up in flames and the harvest failed and his people starved didn't count—the fiery ball just couldn't compete with the icy and enthralling beauty of the moon.

Or perhaps there was a whole different reason behind this, and this reason may or may not be the same reason as to why he broke into a run when he thought he could see a silhouette standing in his doorway; a black smudge that looked like a person who was standing there with his arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face and his greenish brown eyes aflame with impatience as he waited for Spain's belated arrival because _why the fuck did you sleep in the fields, you bastard? You stink and I hate you and I'm hungry and get your perverted hands off me, you fucktard!_

He didn't even notice when the basket slipped from under his arm and fell into the soil with a thump, and he didn't even falter when his beloved tomatoes spilled out and rolled over the ground. The Spaniard ran, the expression on his face mirroring his eagerness, his hopefulness, his _desperation_.

But it was not a trick of the silvery, magnificent moonlight this time, and the person waiting for him on the porch was real, and he looked just like he remembered, but completely different at the same time.

His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his chin was lifted slightly in the air and his body was tensed, like always. But his greenish brown eyes didn't look the same as they blazed a stunning, mind-blowing bluish green when a ray of moonlight caught in them, and his dark hair had a certain glimmer to it that could only be described as divine.

His lips were pressed tightly together, but it was somehow different: those weren't the lips of a child who was about to throw a tantrum, those were the lips of a man who was waiting, an independent, handsome, beautiful young man, and for a second Spain wondered how he hadn't seen it before.

How he hadn't noticed how much his Romano had grown, how absolutely gorgeous he had become within, at least according to Spain's experience, the blink of an eye.

Spain stopped running just before he reached the few steps that led to his porch and as he caught his breath, inhaling the cold night air, he allowed himself to be transfixed by the angelic appearance of the person who had been the centre of his universe for so long, the corners of his mouth curling upward in the widest grin he could manage and he blinked fast, trying to chase away the accumulating moisture in his eyes.

He parted his slightly chapped lips, but no words came out, and once again he wondered, is this just a trick of the light?

_No, _the moon told her child in a soothing and motherly manner, although he would never hear her words of wisdom, _a change of perspective, a new layer of depth, a different point of view, it shows us what's always been there but we haven't seen before._

"Idiota, what the fuck are you doing?" the angel growled, looking away shyly from his former caretaker who was too busy worshipping him to do anything else, it seemed.

Spain just smiled and climbed the stairs, his arms slipping around Romano in an embrace as the first tears started to roll down his cheeks, and Romano stood there, awkward and surprised, and he was rigid in his arms but this didn't bother the older of the two as he hugged him even tighter.

"I love you, Romano. Welcome back."

The moon gazed down upon these two creations of hers with a soft, loving smile on her gracious lips from her position in the tranquil night sky, recognising the realisation that had hit Spain as the beginnings of a love so deep that it might even equal the intensity of her love for her children in the end.

_Once you see something, it cannot be unseen._

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><p><strong>I wanted to start this off with something cute; something light-hearted... If anyone cares, I imagine this scene happening after Romano left Spain because he was no longer part of Spain's territory. R&amp;R please, and I wish you all a Merry Christmas! <strong>


	2. Tribal

**#23. Tribal**

**Thank you so much for the favourites and follows! And special thanks to my lovely reviewer, Guest: reading your review really made my day.**

**Okay, I know tribal may seem a bit farfetched, but since 'tribe' means a family/a group of people sharing an occupation, interest or habit, this one-shot could fit the prompt. When you squint. Really hard. ^^;**

**Uhm... This takes place in a Spain x mafioso!Romano AU.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Nope.**

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><p>"Goddammit..."<p>

His shoulders slammed into the wall, and the air was knocked out of his lungs. He turned around slowly, leaning his forehead against the cold brick wall as he tried to catch his breath. His hand pressed against the fresh wound, and he paled slightly when he felt the warm blood ooze through the gaps between his fingers.

"We can make this easy for you."

Lovino refused to turn around, knowing that the only sight that would meet him would be a very smug smirk hidden behind the barrel of a gun. The fingers of his free hand flexed, and he longed for the familiar feeling of his own firearm resting snugly in his hand, but he had no gun to defend himself with, no rubber grip to curl his fingers around, no trigger to pull.

He fucking deserved this, in a way. He cursed his own stupidity, even loathed himself for it, knowing that this was the inevitable result of him slacking off while he devoted increasingly more attention to Antonio and progressively less to the necessary precautions one had to take when living such a dangerous life as he, Lovino Vargas, the grandson of the boss of the Italian mafia, did.

"Mister Vargas, I'll give you one last chance. Come with me quietly, and we will let you live, yeah?"

Lovino gritted his teeth and peeled himself off the wall, hunching over when the gun wound in his abdomen protested and a wave of excruciating pain washed all over his body. He was trembling, he realised, and he screamed at himself inside his mind for showing such weakness.

After he had gotten his shit together, he turned around in order to face the man who had, undoubtedly, spied on him for weeks to pull off such a brilliant surprise assault like he had done.

"You're even more stupid than you look if you think I'll just go with you, scumbag," he hissed, his brown eyes glinting dangerously in the faint shimmer of the streetlight on the far end of the dark alley. He could barely make out the features of his pursuer, but he knew what family he belonged to, and that was enough.

"It's not like you have much of a choice," the man mused, but even if the slightest twinge of sympathy for the Italian's situation had been present in the man's low voice, it would have been contradicted sharply only seconds later, when he lifted his arm just a tad. The barrel of his gun was now pointing directly at the bridge of Lovino's nose instead of at his heart, and Lovino glared at him. "No one will come to your aid." The thug sounded almost sad.

Lovino knew this tactic, though; he knew it like the back of his own freaking hand. Making a man desperate could do miracles to change said man's mind, but Lovino knew that no amount of bribery or intimidation could change his decision.

"I would rather die, asshole," he growled, and he would have flipped him the bird if he hadn't needed both of his hands to keep his intestines from spilling out—which may sound a bit melodramatic, but it hurt like hell, dammit—and his gaze turned venomous when he saw the pity on the man's face.

The thug stepped forward, actively invading Lovino's personal space; a man without a name who would be sacrificed by his gang in the blink of an eye, a man who was only good for cleaning up his boss's dirty work (unlike Lovino, who could bitch everyone around as much as he wanted to), but he was somehow simultaneously the bastard who now held his pistol just centimetres from the centre of Lovino's forehead.

It didn't matter, Lovino was prepared to die. Hell would greet him warmly.

What the Italian hadn't expected, however, was the pang of guilt that shot through his whole body, immobilising him completely in a manner that the bullet that had buried itself deeply into the flesh of his stomach hadn't accomplished, and he despised it. Dying wasn't that fucking bad; Hell was a much more interesting place than Earth, anyway, and it wasn't like he had any regrets...

Except, he had. He would leave someone behind, someone dear to him. Dearer than his grandfather or his little brother or the mob would ever be, and he knew there was a fat chance that this particular someone would be the first person to find his cold, dead body in an hour or so, when he walked through this very same alley on his way home from work.

The moisture seemed to have evaporated in his mouth when the realisation hit him like a ton of bricks—if this man had known he, Lovino, would be here at this time, he almost certainly knew about Antonio as well, and he knew that Antonio's life wouldn't be spared, despite his ignorance and innocence. By being careless, by being in love, he had single-handedly signed Antonio's death warrant. A man who was impeccably gay but had dated a girl for three years because _he just couldn't make himself break up with her because she loved him so much and he didn't want to hurt her! _would be robbed of the life he so enjoyed because of him.

That was not fucking okay, dammit.

"Ya have any last words to say?"

Lovino squeezed his eyes shut and a thousand words flew through his head, bouncing off the walls of his skull and blurring together; a thousand apologies he'd never utter, hundreds of regrets, but just one exclamation of love, three words he'd never said. Salty moisture accumulated in his eyes, and all of a sudden he could empathise a lot better with all those unfortunate bastards he'd killed himself, who had pleaded, begged him to let them live, they had a family! A wife! He'd always mocked them, laughing at their pitiful souls as he put a bullet through their skull and blew out their brains.

His lips parted, but no words came out; instead, a voice much lighter than his own resounded from the other side of the alley. His eyes snapped open immediately, the overdramatic thoughts that had been clouding his mind just seconds before were thrown out of the window and were replaced by his colourful vocabulary of profanity. What the Hell had he done in life to deserve this?!

Stupid question, he knew. He was a goddamned fucktard, a screw-up extraordinaire.

"What's going on over there?"

The mafioso rough-handedly pushed him against the wall, stifling the yelp of pain and surprise that tumbled over the Italian's lips with a gloved hand. His eyes glinted with a promise: keep quiet, and he'll live, make a sound, and I'll eat both of you alive.

Any sane, normal person would have turned away when no reply came, but not his boyfriend, no. Turning away from danger would be too easy; the innocent bastard, the single best thing in his life, the only person Lovino was associated with who knew nothing of him being part of the Italian mafia, chose to venture into the dark alley instead, calling out once more as he tried to find the source of whatever sound the idiot had heard.

Lovino loved him so fucking much, though. He closed his eyes, pressed his hands a little firmer onto the wound (he relished the pain and the blood seeping out of it, the knowledge that he deserved it did nothing whatsoever to calm the rapid beating of his heart, however) and prayed to whatever man frowning down upon them from his place somewhere in heaven that Antonio would finally understand that this was none of his business, that he should turn aro-

"Hey! Get away!" Antonio yelled, and Lovino's chest deflated like a balloon. The mobster let go of him, and Lovino's body reflexively curled around his abdomen. His vision was blurring at the edges, but the adrenalin running through his veins was still capable of compensating the blood loss. An audible gasp. "Lovi! Lovi, what did he do to you?" The rustling of clothes as the thug lifted his gun and pressed the barrel against Antonio's forehead.

Antonio froze; his green eyes portrayed his confusion, his inability to comprehend the situation. Certainly this man wasn't going to _shoot _him, right? Wasn't that one of those things that only happened in movies? Lovino could almost hear him think those exact words, and another pang of guilt rushed through his body. Antonio was so perfectly, painfully, idiotically innocent; what the fuck had he been thinking when he had given in to the Spaniard's advances a long time ago? He should have kept his distance, should have ignored and ridiculed him, should have yelled at him in the face that he wasn't gay, fucktard! (Although he had, and it hadn't helped; Antonio was as persistent as a mosquito on its eternal journey to turn into a vampire...) He lived and worked in the part of the city that didn't fall under their territory anyway—the attempt to take Lovino's life had been a _when _and _how_, not a _why _or _if_.

Lovino hated himself for allowing himself to feel loved, just this once in his whole life. Of course it would end in a fucking sob story.

"Lovi...?" Antonio didn't sound scared, not yet. He didn't know how easy it was to kill someone, didn't realise that this threat was real and that he had eaten his last meal, had conversed with his friends for the last time; he just didn't believe people could be so evil. He should have been left in the dark on that aspect of life. Life wasn't something you could dance through, life was a terrible place filled with harsh, cold, bittersweet realities; life wasn't a place for tender, bright souls.

"Mister Vargas," the man said, and Lovino could hear the smirk in his voice. It fuelled his rage, made him seethe with anger. He wasn't going to sit by idly and allow this man to take the life of Antonio right in front of his eyes. "I will ask you one last time-" Lovino crouched down, his hands blindly searching the floor "-are you coming with me, or not? You wouldn't want him to die-" his fingers curled around the broken neck of a beer bottle, and his finger cautiously inspected the jarred edges of the piece of glass "-on your account, would you?" Lovino silently rose, one hand still clutching his bleeding abdomen. The glass cut into his skin as he tightened his grip on the piece.

"Yeah, I'll come with you." His voice sounded odd, deformed, and he saw Antonio's lips move in protest—_don't go with this man, Lovi, he's trouble, don't go, please, Lovi__—_but he couldn't hear him over the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. His body was weakening, but his mind was set and his heart made of steel, he had a job to do, dammit, and nothing could fucking stop him.

The man didn't notice the bloodlust he'd awakened within Lovino, though, and he hadn't picked up on the changes in Lovino's voice, and he looked pretty damn pleased with himself as he turned away from Antonio in order to face his newest captive.

He never knew what fucking hit him.

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><p><strong>The Christmas spirit enlightens us all... :P Thanks for reading, and please review?<strong>


	3. Friends

**#32. Friends**

**This takes place in an AU. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

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><p>The scent of cigarette smoke; silence, almost tangible.<p>

It was achingly familiar, and the bitterness of the current situation was so heavy, it could be tasted on one's tongue. He just stood there, unmoving, frozen; broken, but still trying to hold himself together by embracing himself, the muscles in his arms were rigid and his fingers dug into the gaps between his ribs, the thin fabric of his t-shirt doing absolutely nothing to protect his olive skin from the powerful digits. His hold was strong enough to bruise.

And yet, neither of them moved. This was something he had to do alone, and while his muscles tensed and his heart urged him to step forward, to hug him, tell everything was all right, his mind, for once, was more stubborn than his heart and he stayed still, frozen, the artificial light hurting his sleepy eyes as he stared, unblinking, at the figure in front of him.

He needed him, Antonio knew, he had come here to seek his approval, his friendship, his company, but he couldn't give it, not yet. He knew this was a one man's job: Lovino had to accept it by himself, had to acknowledge his current state of hopelessness, of incompleteness, and if he were to step forward and offer his aid at this crucial time, he would close a door that was slowly opening with devastating force, and he shouldn't.

Instead, he blocked the entrance to his flat, not inviting Lovino in, not doing anything in particular aside from breathing, being, his sweatpants loosely hugging his hips and his chest and stomach bare; Lovino's desperate knocking had awoken him, and while he was worried, confused, pained by Lovino's silence and obvious depressing mood, he forced himself not to move as his mind went a hundred miles per minute and his arms ached to wrap themselves around the person in front of him.

How many times had this happened? He allowed himself to wonder – and he wished he could say he'd lost count, but he hadn't, and the number bounced off the walls of his skull, repeating endlessly, _four. _This was the fourth time Lovino had come to him, disappointed, heartbroken, and this was the fourth time Antonio would offer him comfort, ice cream and his unlimited friendship, support, warmth and hospitality.

They were friends, Lovino and he, although Lovino refused to admit it most of the time (Antonio thought he was cute when he did that, loved the rosiness of his cheeks as he spluttered excuses and profanities) and Antonio always wished they were something different, something more (because he didn't care if his very being was mocked, if his confidence was shattered at another's expense, so long it was Lovino who did this; his dearest Lovi).

"What are you looking at, you bastard?" Lovino whispered, silent tears staining his beautiful cheeks as he looked at the dirty ground like it was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen, but Antonio didn't reply, didn't even budge. "You know what happened, dammit..."

Realisation, acceptance, anger, depression, sadness, self-loathing; emotions that ran over Lovino's face, swirled in his mesmerising brown eyes as he looked up, his gaze filled with tears, blurred over.

"I'm such a fucking idiot," he said, and Antonio's heart disagreed, thumping loudly in his chest (_I love you, I love you, I love you_). "He cheated on me, Toni, the bastard cheated on me!" He wrapped his arms around a violently sobbing Italian, rocking him gently as he led him into his flat, knowing no sleep would be caught that night, but he didn't mind, didn't care.

Five AM, Thursday morning: the scent of cigarette smoke; silence, almost tangible.

An empty pint of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, Ben & Jerry's, was wedged between them three hours later, and Lovino had calmed down significantly, the ice cream had soothed his nerves (like it always did; Antonio always made sure he had some ice cream in stock just for Lovino) and the rough edges seemed to have been removed from the fresh wound; it would still take a long, long time until Lovino would be recovered from this, Antonio knew that, but still, he was there for him, would always be.

The Italian had scrunched up his nose and made a biting remark about the cigarette stench that lingered around the flat, and Antonio had laughed and explained it was all Francis's fault, really, and Lovino believed him, since he knew how much Antonio hated smoking, since he was painfully aware of the many arguments Antonio engaged in with the two remaining members of the infamous Bad Touch Trio regarding that subject.

Their friendship was strange, the Spaniard pondered; Lovino could hardly be called an affable and agreeable companion, while Antonio was the epitome of these characteristics, and they argued a lot (although almost all their fights were one-sided) and the taller, tanner young man was fully aware that the affection he felt for the other man and the tingling, numbing, amazing feeling of love that was evoked whenever he saw this particular friend of his, a feeling he deeply cherished, were too intense, too specific to be labelled as simply and only 'friendly'.

But as he held this swearing, insecure and lovable individual in his arms and pressed a kiss to his temple (and Lovino let him), muttering that Lovino should go to bed, that sleep would help him, that everything wouldn't be quite as bad later that day, he felt contentment settle over him, like a warm and comfortable and reassuring blanket, and he smiled.

Because for now, being friends was enough.

For now, being friends was perfect.


	4. Love

**#41. Love**

**Oh. I ****_wanted _****to update this fic the day before yesterday, because, well, this is Spamano and it was Valentine's Day, and I also ****_wanted _****to update this fic on the twelfth because it was ****_Antonio's birthday _****BUT that didn't happen, now did it? Nope. This one-shot was inspired by both Valentine's Day and Sappho's poems (she was amazing, wasn't she?).**

**This one-shot is dedicated to Binnx. Thanks for reviewing, darling! (:**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

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><p>Imagine the sturdiest of trees, the tallest too. Not a flimsy one, I must emphasise, but those giants that can easily sustain the strongest and most forceful gales and gusts. An oak tree, if you will.<p>

He dipped his brush in the dot of murky brown paint resting on the palette, the fine hairs of the brush parting delicately as the thick paint oozed through and stained the light hairs perfect, absolute, watery brown.

Imagine a valley around this tree, with grasses so green as his eyes, flowers as fragrant as his scent (not his cologne, or at least not per say, but that typical scent that was his and his alone, sweetened by his salty sweat and ripened by the smell of musk, perfected by an odour so complex and incomprehensible, indescribable in such a way that only his name would ever suffice as a description, as a label), the sunshine as brilliant as his smile.

A streak, two, three, some tiny dots and applied pressure, lighter colours, darker ones; he created a tree and then the field around it, the delicacy of his movements and the fleetingness of his caresses, of his strokes, so wonderful that the tree looked fragile and gorgeous in its sturdiness.

Nearby that tree is a mountain, a big one that, when the days are particularly overcast, can easily puncture the clouds above its summit. It looms there in the distance, like a fiend or, perhaps, more likely still, a quiet, reliable guardian.

The composition wasn't brilliant, and even less so, unique, but he couldn't think of an alternative that would portray this peculiar scenery quite as well. That would grasp the essence and the depth of what he felt, of what he was and had become.

And from that mountain, high above anyone's head, the wind would blow right into the valley. This gust causes the oak tree to shake and the leaves to rustle; a deafening, alien noise that would quake everything in the tree's periphery, would send everything in unresolvable disarray.

It wasn't finished, just couldn't be, he figured. He squinted, tilted his head, ignored the thumping of his racing heart somewhere hidden in his ribcage. He grabbed the brush and dipped it in some paint, a scowl on his face, thunder in his eyes (and something sweeter, something that should be a blessing but was truthfully nothing but a curse).

The tree was so fierce, so grand, so stable; no breeze could affect it, no tornado could pull it out of the ground. And yet... Yet this gust was strong enough to make the trunk quiver and the arms squeak; to touch it in its ancient, powerful yet thoroughly unprotected heart.

It shouldn't be possible. A gust just shouldn't, couldn't, be that strong. And yet this tree, located in the middle of this peaceful valley, was conquered by the tenderness of a simple breeze.

Lovino put away the brush and stared at his creation, satisfied, for the gust that had interrupted and disturbed his locked-in life wasn't harsh and cold and grey, but wonderful and warm and gentle. And green. A green so fierce and pure he couldn't fathom what shade it truly was.

This tree was his heart, this valley his mind. This feeling he experiences was not a nice feeling; it was actually more of a horrible cruelty. He felt sick and insecure and his whole heart was quivering in fear, shaking in its soil.

But at the same time this feeling enlightened him, the presence in his mind a novelty. The consistent humming of his voice somewhere in the back of his head, a blessing. He was just always there, always waiting patiently. He just always _was_.

He had fallen in love. Slowly, like one might fall asleep, or others might wake up. But he'd fallen in love all the same, and he hated it, but cherished it all at once.


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